


Humility (Is Not Always a Fall From Grace)

by noexiiistence



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games)
Genre: Established Relationship (Familial), Other, Pre-Canon, References to parental neglect and abuse
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-09-28
Updated: 2020-09-29
Packaged: 2021-03-07 21:01:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,709
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26704129
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/noexiiistence/pseuds/noexiiistence
Summary: After infringing "too far" on Mythal's lands, she unites the rest of the Evanuris (sans Dirthamen) to teach Falon'Din a hard lesson. It is then up to Dirthamen to help him recover.
Relationships: Falon'Din & Dirthamen
Comments: 2
Kudos: 6





	Humility (Is Not Always a Fall From Grace)

He hurt. His entire world was pain, his entire vision red. There was blood all over the floor, his blood, and so much of it. He had never lost this much before, he didn’t know if it was possible to survive having lost this much. The room is large, it had been designed that way on purpose. It was his throne in this temple, it was where his priests worshiped, where he took audiences, but despite it’s size it feels like the walls are closing in. He can’t move and his eyes are fixed on his blood splattered throne, watching droplets drip from the side and into the puddle of blood that was now the floor.

There was an irony, Falon’Din thought, in the possibility of the god of death dying in his own temple, before his own throne. An irony he wanted, distantly, to laugh at. But no sound could come, his voice was ruined, his throat burned through, and every spare thought he had was focused on blocking out the pain. He didn’t want to feel it, _couldn’t_ feel it. Because if he felt it then Dirthamen felt it, and no matter how he tried he knew he couldn’t shut the link in their minds entirely. He had never been good at manipulating it. His thoughts and emotions were too loud, but Dirthamen didn’t need to feel this.

 _Dirthamen_ the thought reminded him, distantly and through a great fog, the he had shattered the eluvian behind his twin before the others arrived, made sure they couldn’t get to him too, if they had, if Dirthamen had been here, neither of them would have survived, Elgar’nan wouldn’t have stopped, wouldn’t have listened to Mythal-

But they’re gone now. The shards of the mirror lay on the ground, uncaring and unable to transport his twin through them now. He can tell from their link that Dirthamen is close, but he couldn’t have come by the eluvian, couldn’t have simply waited there for Falon’Din to open it again. That one would never function again, they would have to make a new one for his throne room if he didn’t…

There’s a tug on the mental link and Falon’Din moves his head just enough to see Dirthamen coming through the doorway. Relief floods him to see him alive and unharmed and _here_. Dirthamen was his healer and brother, had always been. He had never failed him, surely if he was going to survive this it would be by Dirthamen’s hands, surely he’d get him back up and moving.

But _Dirthamen_ wasn’t moving right. He had always been smooth and graceful, every motion necessary, often floated to not expend energy walking. But now he stumbled like his legs didn’t work, his steps uneven and limping and it takes what feels like almost too long for him to cross the room and collapse to his knees in the puddle of blood surrounding Falon’Din. As though he needed more to be concerned about, when Dirthamen pressed his hands against one of the wounds on his torso, his hands were _warm_ against Falon’Din’s own blood loss. Dirthamen had always had an ice cold touch, always felt like frostbite and he had taken comfort in it. But now even Falon’Din was colder than his touch, surely he felt like a corpse.

He had never thought he could die, even as a child, he never believed death was possible. But now he wondered, now he thought perhaps he had been wrong. Control over the Fade and the ability to enter the Beyond did not make him invincible, it seemed, and it was terrifying. Terrifying to think that maybe, _maybe_ even Dirthamen couldn’t heal this. Maybe it was too much to come back from. So much blood all around him, so much pain. He had lost track of the injuries, lost track of the burns and cuts and bruises.

Instead, he channels that fear, that terror, into trying to close his link to Dirthamen’s mind further. He didn’t need to feel the pain, it was a distraction. He felt the Fade sing as the twin draws on the power of the blood all around them, it would be too much if they both felt it, too overwhelming and powerful. Too much for him to focus with. Too much to also feel Falon’Din’s stark terror, to see his swimming vision, to feel the life trying to slip out of him, too much, too much, too much-

“Stop.”

The word is gentle but firm enough to cut through Falon’Din’s mounting panic, if only for a moment. But he wouldn’t let Dirthamen feel this, he _couldn’t_ let Dirthamen feel this, couldn’t let the others win by allowing his twin to see and know and feel. They had wanted both of them, they had wanted Dirthamen to _watch_ as they pulled him to shreds laughing, they had wanted to see if Dirthamen would turn, would join in. Elgar’nan wanted to kill them _both_. Anger mingles with the fear rising in him, and he both wants to go home and hide from the world and make the others _pay_ for the indecency of this, wants to spend the rest of his life comforted by his twin and hunt the others down until not a single one remained to oppose him.

His vision clouds over, finally, as magic slowly, oh so slowly, knits his wounds. The adrenaline was leaving, despite his fear and panic. He only had so much and the supply was exhausted. He opens his mouth to say something- an apology? A goodbye? A dying wish?- but still, no sound comes from his mangled throat and unconsciousness takes him.

\---

Next thing he knows, he’s in the Fade. It’s his temple but also not, and he wanders the halls, looking for the souls of those cut down when others came for him. One by one, he finds his priests and followers who had the misfortune to be in the wrong temple on the wrong day and he leads them, walking. It was always easy for him to find the path, to connect the areas of the Fade he needed and guide others down it. It was rare to lead groups of this size when a war hadn’t happened, when a battle hadn’t been won, but it was still his duty. And these were his followers, what god would he be if he forsook them in death, his own domain and a facet of him worshiped and admired?

He doesn’t bother to think of the possibility that this was where he was stuck now, doesn’t bother to think about his broken body where it lay while he walked these paths, doesn’t know if his soul was still attached to it, whether or not Dirthamen still worked or mourned. He would find out soon enough, but he had a duty to those who passed on, and he would not leave those loyal followers of his to find their own ways or to wait longer than they needed.

Any apologies offered, he refused to accept, offering forgiveness instead. They beat _him,_ of course his followers couldn’t have stopped them. They didn’t have the numbers or the power. But they tried, he knew they did. And that was all he could ask of them. The path was long, but his followers walked it with pride saying their own prayers for their souls, a formality Falon’Din couldn’t promise they would get in the realm of the living and waking. But they had it here, with their god leading them, voices joined together, a solidarity even in death, in knowing they had failed, but it wasn’t seen as a failure.

They aren’t far on the path yet when Dirthamen appears by his side. Falon’Din wastes little time taking his twin’s hand in his and it’s cold again, as it should be. But he won’t talk about it. He won’t ask. He doesn’t want to know his fate, much less in front of those he was responsible for. So instead he squeezes the hand in his and they continue forward and onward, walking paths the both of them had walked many times before, leading the fallen masses together, as they should.

One realm of the Fade bleeds into the next and with each juncture, Falon’Din looks back to be certain they’ve lost nobody, that no one has wandered off or gotten lost as Dirthamen had the first time he traveled here. It’s slow progress, with a group the size of his whole temple, but it’s progress and they have all the time in the world. They must pay the journey it’s proper respect, peppered with prayers and answers to lifelong questions given from either twin, whoever was most fit to answer.

There were questions about history, about wars, about the rest of the pantheon, about why they were chosen, about why things happened. Questions about the two of them, looking for final knowledge on their gods before crossing over, and they both gave the best answers they could, rewarding lifetimes of faithful and loyal service with unfiltered and honest truth. With promises that the world would go on without them, that their sacrifices will be remembered and honored in Falon’Din’s plans, in his future.

And then, at long last, they approach the Beyond and Falon’Din hesitates. He, himself, doesn’t want to step through for fear that he won’t be able to step back out this time, afraid that Dirthamen’s appearance in the Fade had marked his passing, had been the moment Dirthamen could do nothing else for him. But he wasn’t going to dwell on that, he had to be strong, he had to lead his flock. So, with a deep breath and a toss of his head, he puts on his most confident smile and gestures to the opening.

“The path before you leads to the Beyond.” He announces, facing the group with all the confidence he can muster. “What you find there is what you wish and what you make of it. I promise, you will be honored. I will have the temple cleaned and your named etched into the wall of my throne room lest anyone forget the sacrifices you made, the blood spilt for my rise to power. You deserved to see my future, you deserved to help pave it. And the other Evanuris cut that short. It is unfair; the games of gods have always come at the cost of the lives of their faithful, but I, above the rest, remember. I alone cherish and care for each and every one of you who dwell in our empire. I alone have the power to guide you to the Beyond. And I will find vengeance for your lives and justice against those who cut it short. You have my word. We Elvhen are meant to live forever, the greatest sin is those who rob us of that without a chance to fight. The others thought their cause just. I will show them they were wrong, in your names. This I promise. Go, then. Go easy into the Beyond knowing you will have justice and revenge. You will be honored and remembered.”

It was widely understood that should he speak of himself, the statements included both twins, and Dirthamen nods his approval to drive the point home. They would be remembered, they would be honored. Falon’Din did not make that promise lightly. Even should he be dead himself, He would beg Dirthamen to do as he wished, to survive long enough for revenge to be enacted. He would not be a liar in this.

Cheers and tears and applause follow his words before his followers shuffle through at their own speed, saying prayers and singing praises to the last, giving Falon’Din the confidence he needed to continue standing tall as the last walked through and entered the Beyond. Falon’Din watches as they pass through and holds Dirthamen’s hand tightly. He opens his mouth to speak again, to say something to Dirthamen, but, once again, no words come, then there’s nothing and he falls into blackness

–--

He remembers waking. It’s all he remembers for a while. The sensation of dragging himself awake as though breaking the surface of a deep lake and Dirthamen’s presence and something pressed against his lips- food, probably, or water- before he remembers waking again. He doesn’t know how long this cycle continues before he’s more coherent of his surroundings, but when he looks around to find Dirthamen fast asleep beside him in the bed and no desire to sleep again, he decides to accept it. He had already slept more than he had this past century, he was certain. He is also certain that no small amount of that was magic and potions from Dirthamen himself to aid in his recovery.

Falon’Din shifts and suddenly feels deep aches all over. Nothing pulled or popped or opened, but the memory of the pain lingered in his muscles, especially after extended disuse. With a noise that’s half a whine and half a groan, he manages to roll over, intentionally laying on top of his brother and burying his face in the other’s neck.

It doesn’t take long for Dirthamen under him to stir. “Good morning,” Falon’Din greets, pulling his face out of the other’s neck and looking at him. He was thinner, face less round, the body under his weight less soft. How long had it been? How much had Dirthamen been taking care of himself in that time? “How long was I asleep?”

“A few months,” Dirthamen answers quietly, hands lifting to comb though Falon’Din’s hair. It’s significantly shorter now and for a moment, Falon’Din can’t remember why. He remembers the pain, but he was already fading when… when…

He reaches back to touch his hair himself. “She...she- Andruil-” he can’t tell if it’s fury or grief catching in his throat. His hair has once flowed almost to the floor when unbound. And she had taken his braid and cut it with a hunting knife. Even with a few month growth is barely touched his shoulders, now. “She took it. Dirthamen, she- she…”

Immediately, he feels Dirthamen’s calming influence wash over his mind like a waterfall. It wasn’t stifling, it wasn’t dismissive. Simply calming, instinctive against the panic rising in Falon’Din’s mind. It wasn’t rage, he wanted it to be rage, but it wasn’t.

It came back to him now, all at once. He knew he had been beaten, but he remembers Elgar’nan’s searing hand at his throat- and that must be why his voice sounds so rough- remembers the taunts and jeers to tell him where Dirthamen was, to remind him he had always been unwanted and worthless. Remembered Mythal’s cold hard eyes behind the rest, giving sanction but never dirtying her own hands and he hated her more for it, almost more than Elgar’nan. At least he was _used_ to the abuses slung from Elgar’nan, the man who sired him but was no father.

He remembers lying in his own blood while Elgar’nan argued with Mythal about killing him then and there, remembered the tug as Andruil lifted his blood soaked braid and sliced it through with her knife, it was a crude and jagged cut, but he’d been unable to struggle or protest. He rememberslooking at the cracked Eluvian simply thankful Dirthamen was safe. That he didn’t have to watch him die.

Rage felt so far from his grasp now, all he could feel was despair. Did the others even know he lived or did they assume he was gone? Was he written off as a loss and a joke? He had been beaten, he felt violated, felt robbed of his status and beauty. His hair would grow back, certainly, but how long? How long would it take for it to return to it’s former length? Would he even be recognized as he was now?

“I _lost_ ,” he says, the word heavy on his tongue as his hands curl into fists, pressing into the bed again to keep from ripping the rest of his hair out. “I _lost_. I can’t- I don’t- They _beat me_ , Dirthamen.” His voice is soft and hoarse and the words are heavy and, almost worse than all the rest, he can feel _tears_ pressing against his eyes. He had _failed_. He had proven everything Elgar’nan has said of him as a child correct, and he felt disgusting for it.

“You will win again,” Dirthamen promises, hands still gently stroking his hair, comfort and love still pouring into his mind. Comfort and love and longing and support and promises and certainty looking for all the cracks in Falon’Din’s broken psyche to pour into and plaster over to mend. But it wasn’t enough. There wasn’t enough compassion in the world to fix him this time. He was a broken shell, he was a husk.

“I _can’t_. How do I win when I know they have seen me laying in my own blood? How do I win when I have been at their _mercy_?” He presses his face into Dirthamen’s neck again, hiding the tears gathering in his eyes, his fists curling tighter with every moment.

“But you will. You will rise again. They did not kill you. They cannot. You are too powerful, and you will show them.” Dirthamen’s voice is still quiet, is still gentle and soothing. But it’s _certain_. It has the all the confidence Falon’Din lost, bleeding on his temple floor. He had made a promise to the souls of his priests but in this moment it all seemed too much, too big. How was he supposed to go to war again? How was he supposed to wage it in a way to avoid this retribution again?

How did he face the others with his head high after this?

“I can’t.” his voice is broken and small and pleading as he grips at Dirthamen. “I _can’t_.”

“But you will.” Dirthamen promises. “One day, you will.”

–--

Learning he had slept for months made Falon’Din restless. He never stayed still long and he slept less still. So the first time he feels his legs could support him, Falon’Din climbs out of bed. Dirthamen was away, attending business on their behalf, but was due home any moment and he needed to see his reflection. He had always been a vain creature, not allowing even a single strand of hair to be out of place and he knew there was no way to maintain that upkeep as he slept. It would have been far from Dirthamen’s main priority of healing him and keeping him alive and asleep. But he also remembered the beating, his skin still felt taught in places, his muscles sore from healing and disuse. He needed to see how he looked now. Needed to know what scars remained, what marks marred his flesh, see how wild his hair was, needed to see if he could recover even the barest drop of who he was _before_ any of this.

So he trudges his way slowly towards his vanity room- a room lined floor to ceiling wall to wall with mirrors with only the smallest blind spot for Dirthamen should he ever feel a need to enter the room. His steps to reach it are heavy, leaning more than he would like to on the walls for support ,legs not as strong as he thought, but he had come this far, he wasn’t turning back now- his destination was closer than the bedroom was, after all. Dirthamen would be home soon, he could help him return to bed. So instead of turning around he continues forward, one pained step after the other, pulling the door to the room open with the simplest of Fade manipulations and walks in.

He doesn’t look, at first. He’s worried about what he’ll see, so he keeps his gaze on the floor as he walks to the furthest wall, stopping just an arm’s reach away. The room was big enough that he didn’t catch his reflection in his periphery if he didn’t try, but he had walked in here specifically to look, hadn’t he? To know? He felt the concern and apology from Dirthamen any time he looked upon his face. It had been little over a week since he first awoke and he hadn’t asked. He didn’t want to hear it and Dirthamen knew. So he didn’t know what happened, he didn’t know what he looked like. But he _felt_ the sorrow from his twin, from his other half, felt the grief. And he had to know. He had to see.

Slowly, Falon’Din lifts his head and looks.

For a moment, he doesn’t recognize himself and the world feels unsteady under his feet. The face looking back at him is not his. There’s too many scars on it. There’s slashes on his cheek and his nose is crooked and there’s discoloration indicative of burning on his temple. A cut near his lips makes them look pulled into a perpetual frown. And his _throat_. It’s a mess of imperfectly repaired flesh, stark against the smoothness his skin once was. His hair is a matted mess, more tangled knots than soft cascades. The reflection looking back at him is something out of a nightmare. Even after months of sleep, deep dark circles curl under his eyes, even against his pale skin the scars stand starkly in contrast. The face looking back is familiar, all too familiar, but it’s not _his_.

Slowly, his hand lifts to touch his throat and he _remembers_. He feels Elgar’nan’s grip again, so strong, so fierce, his skin _melting_. The face staring back at him in the mirror is _Elgar’nan’s_ face, so much like his, but scarred from battle, from less care, from less vanity. His hair is too short for either of them but it’s closer, so much closer, to Elgar’nan’s than his own. Bright and fair and barely brushing his shoulders now as opposed to sweeping his ankles as it was before.

His hand on his throat tightens, it’s Elgar’nan’s, those are the eyes looking back at him. He knows from sensation, from the struggle breathing as his grip tightens, that it’s his own hand on his own throat, but all he can see is Elgar’nan in the mirror, face pulled into a snarl by a scar. The face is not his own and he wants to see it suffer, wants to see it in pain. It’s not his, it’s not his, it’s _not._

His thoughts are interrupted by the smash of shattering glass. His reflection fractures and falls to the floor, falls away and only then does he realize what happened, only then does he feel the magical charge all around him, his panic and despair calling upon his ambient magic, electrifying the room and shattering a number of mirrors, including the one he had be standing before. The Fade still crackled around him, looking for something else to strike, something to burn and destroy, a mind of it’s own drawn by Falon’Din’s own powerless emotions. He had never had great control, but he had nothing to lash out at, now.

Instead, Falon’Din’s legs give out, refusing to support him any longer and he collapses where he stands, glass underfoot, hand still wrapped loosely around his marred throat. This would be why his voice still sounded wrong. It would never sound right again. His face would never look right again. It was more than he could bear. He thought death was the worst that could happen to him, he thought allowing him to live was a second chance. But, instead, every time he saw his reflection he would have to remember. The only face to look back at him from the glass now was that of his tormentor, the one who had sired him and cast him out, the one who only saw him as an object of ire and rage and hate. The one who had forever marred his throat and voice.

Cold hands touch his shoulders, pulling his face into a familiar cloak and Falon’Din doesn’t fight it, doesn’t protest. He didn’t feel Dirthamen’s return home, didn’t hear any servants knock at the door to inform him. But he knew, even should he not have been finished with whatever duties he attended, he immediately returned upon feeling Falon’Din’s panic. He was being a burden, he was a hindrance in continuing to try to run their empire. “They won, Dirthamen,” he murmurs quietly, weakly, in a voice that isn’t his, a voice that’s wrong and always will be now. Too rough, too raspy. “I can’t get this back. They took it. It’s not-” His hands wrap tightly in the fabric of the other’s cloak. “I look like _him_ , Dirthamen. How can you bear to look at me? How can _anyone_? What if- What if my followers mistake me?”

“You are not Elgar’nan,” Dirthamen promises, calm comfort flooding their mental link yet again, with an undercurrent of sorrow, of guilt and apology. Dirthamen blamed himself, Falon’Din realizes, for not having healed enough fast enough. But Dirthamen didn’t hurt him, Dirthamen wasn’t the one who raised a hand. “Nor will you ever be. Those loyal to you will know you. And any who mistake you, you will crush under your heel.”

“I don’t want to look like him.” Yet, he feels himself peeking around Dirthamen to catch his reflection again. Surely it had been wrong the first time. Surely there had been something wrong with the mirror. But before he can, Dirthamen pulls his face back into his chest, shape shifting into a bear and shifting him to his back to carry Falon’Din out of the room. It was for the best, truly, Dirthamen had always loathed his own reflection and Falon’Din couldn’t bear the sight anymore. It was too much, too horrifying

“I’m not….” Falon’Din’s still speaking, face buried in fur, “I’m not _him_. I’m _not_.” He’s not sure what he means, but the tears in his eyes are distracting. He hadn’t cried this much since childhood. But he’s slid gently from Dirthamen’s back into bed and Dirthamen curls around him, still a bear, big and warm and soft, and Falon’Din allows himself to be lost in the fur, lost in his emotions.

\---

Taking audiences wasn’t always regular for Falon’Din. He would give notice to a temple to send out word and would stay for hearings for as long or as short as he felt like. His followers had come to adjust to this, meaning his first few days taking audiences were always busy with a steady but slower trickling after wherein celebrations and festivities often happened.

The festivities are waning slightly, when he feels the first tug on the mental link. While, generally, the twins were a set unit, whenever Falon’Din had celebrations, often Dirthamen would remain behind, sleeping or learning, to avoid the attention Falon’Din, himself, so craved. However, generally, if he needed something, he would still come himself, often shifted into a raven or bear, a gentle prod telling of his coming beforehand. But this was almost vicious, panicked. A yank at string connecting their minds. This was new, and Falon’Din knew it could be nothing good.

He orders his throne room cleared and paces the length of it, awaiting his twin’s arrival with whatever dire and urgent news he had. He can feel the approaching thoughts becoming vaguely more and more clear as he gets closer, and it’s mere minutes before the full picture’s unfolding in a concerned rush, thoughts reeling as Dirthamen steps through the eluvian. _It’s not safe, the others are coming_ , repeated over and over and that’s all Falon’Din needs. He doesn’t need to know _why_ the others are advancing as he was civil at _best_ with them, and Dirthamen’s urgency spoke of how soon. Not even an hour. More likely to be minutes.

He calls for his head priest who immediately enters the room with a bow and Falon’Din orders the temple evacuated. No explanation and the priest doesn’t ask, doesn’t question his god, merely slips back out with haste to do as bid. Turning back to Dirthamen, he sees the resolve in his twin’s eyes. “No,” he says firmly, waving to open the eluvian again. “You’re not staying.”

“Then come with,” Dirthamen tries to reason. If ever anyone could get Falon’Din to compromise on anything it was Dirthamen, his other more mellow half, and he had managed it before. But not now, not on this. This was a matter of pride and honor and Falon’Din had never been the type to fun from a battle. He wouldn’t budge. Dirthamen couldn’t stay because he was the only one Elgar’nan hated more than Falon’Din- if only because he loved Mythal sometimes. But Dirthamen, more than Falon’Din, was the symbol of his failure in their contest of heirs. Mythal had won by a matter of minutes with Dirthamen, rendering Falon’Din useless, and then _still_ gave him power and allowed him to ascend the ladder into godhood. They both knew that given any chance, Elgar’nan wouldn’t hesitate to kill Dirthamen, and Falon’Din wasn’t taking that chance.

“If I go they’ll continue hunting until they find me. But you must leave. Go back, you can return once they are gone, I suspect I’ll have need of you.” He doesn’t say he’ll lose, he doesn’t even think it. He knows he cannot take them all alone, but he lets his arrogance hold the reigns, allows his arrogance to ride, in an attempt to soothe his twin’s concerns.. Dirthamen starts to protest but it’s interrupted by the first shriek echoing through the temple. Falon’Din doesn’t hesitate to shove Dirthamen back the way he came, back through the eluvian. “It’s safer, I’m sorry,” he says letting go of his brother and other half with only the eluvian between them. And then he shatters it with a hard hit of his staff. He’d apologize to Dirthamen again, later, for being rough with him for the first time and blocking him out. But it wasn’t safe.

The chaos outside of the room is soon audible despite the thick walls and Falon’Din carefully moves back to his throne and takes a seat, staff in one hand as he takes deep calming breaths. Calm before the storm. Battle was clearer when calmer. No shields this time, not with Dirthamen away, and his magic had always been instable at the best of times, he wouldn’t even try to make a shield, it would only be a waste. This would have to be over fast one way or another- Falon’Din had never prioritized learning how to protect himself. That had always been Dirthamen’s job.

He eyes the scythe blade on his staff and tries to remember if it was used since it’s last sharpening. He doesn’t believe so, nor, then, would the blade at the bottom have had any occasion to see use either.

The screams are closer now and Falon’Din takes another breath, letting his expression harden but his muscles relax. He can feel Dirthamen across the mental link. Worried and trying to find the paths to the other eluvians in his temple. He sends a promise of comfort across the bond, a promise that he’ll be fine, a caution not to rush. He won’t die, he _can’t_ die, so there’s no need to hurry. He’ll be fine.

And with that promise the door to the room is blasted open and the head of his high priest is thrown to the floor, ahead of Elgar’nan, leading the charge but followed closely by Mythal, and then the others. Mythal had planned this, Falon’Din was certain. No one else could have united all of them to any cause, even one such as this that they all might agree with. He sees Solas’s face, carefully blank and logs it before turning his attention back to Elgar’nan. The only one missing was Ghilan’nain, but Falon’Din was certain she’d show up- Andruil was here after all, insane though she was.

“If you wanted to talk, I could have arranged an audience,” he says blandly, not bothering to stand from his seat, looking bored as possible. “You needn’t have spilled so much blood to attain it.”

“You know this is more than that,” Mythal replies, her voice managing to both be emotionless and morally superior and it takes a moment of self control to not throw the first spell then. But he wasn’t going to be the one to raise his hand first. He was violent and impulsive, but he’d be damned if he allowed them the narrative they’d want. He would not throw the first blow. After this was over they could lie to their followers, as he knew they would, but they, and he, would know the truth. He wouldn’t provoke them. They wouldn’t get off with pretending this was any kind of defense.

“You know this day has been coming since you were born,” Elgar’nan spits and it takes everything in him to not respond to that one. To not acknowledge him. Elgar’nan might have lead this charge in person, but it was not his plan. Falon’Din wasn’t about to feed his ego. Any other day, he would allow himself to be provoked, but not here, not now. Elgar’nan wasn’t getting off that easy, not after everything Falon’Din suffered by his hand.

“Perhaps, but I haven’t bothered to look into your minds and Dirthamen isn’t here,” he replies, voice carefully level, tinged with boredom despite the way his pulse was racing and he could already feel the adrenaline pumping. He knew a fight was coming, they all did. But this banter, too, was a battle and he wasn’t about to lose it.

“And where is he?” Mythal asks, casual, but there’s a tint to her eyes suggesting that she might have had a plan if he was here. Take him back, perhaps? Mythal was the only one among the pantheon who had any clue how much of Falon’Din’s plans and ambitions began with Dirthamen, she was the only one to suspect that removing him would be removing the air beneath his wings. But neither of them were going to let that cat out of the bag, it’s too valuable a game piece for Mythal to share.

“Call him back,” Elgar’nan demands. And Falon’Din lets his gaze, now annoyed, slide to Elgar’nan for a moment, lips pulling into the slightest of frowns.

“And why should I do what you say?” He asks, tauntingly. “No, I think he’s quite safe and comfortable where he is and I would rather not bother him for this _minor_ nuisance.” Rage flashes across Elgar’nan’s face and Falon’Din carefully keeps his smug pride off his own. Perhaps riling up Elgar’nan was not the smartest plan, but, like Falon’Din himself, when he got emotional, he stopped thinking, and Falon’Din was better at predicting emotion than thought, and he knows Elgar’nan’s rage almost intimately.

“But he knows we’re here,” Solas says, not quite a question. He knew Dirthamen knew, interesting. Had he orchestrated the information coming to him? Falon’Din wouldn’t thank him, not when he knew Solas was, also, here to side with Mythal and try to take him down, try to teach him some _humility_. But they should have known he couldn’t learn it, it wouldn’t be the first time they tried to brand him with it.

“Does he?” Falon’Din asks, cocking his head. “I wouldn’t know. I haven’t seen him in a few days. We all know he does not like making public appearances and I’ve been here. You can ask anyone. Or-” he pointedly glances to the severed head still on the floor, “you _could_ have asked anyone.”

Mythal’s gaze flickers and Falon’Din knows she’s noticed the shattered eluvian. He’d not had the time to clean it up or remove it, but they couldn’t follow it with it broken anyway. Even if they all noticed, Dirthamen was still safe. They hadn’t united against Dirthamen, after all, Dirthamen hadn’t wronged them the way he himself had, or so they thought. The signs were there to be followed, despite their deceptions, but no one was like to follow them. No one knew. And that was fine, it meant all thoughts and attention were on him, it allowed him to be the shining star while Dirthamen worked in the shadows, as they both preferred it.

Casually he stands, towering above them with the dais’ height added to his own, still holding his staff, but instead of upright, he holds it in both hands, one hand on either side of the joint in the middle of it. He holds it casually, but he’s ready for the fight to come. The tension’s rising in the silence, but Falon’Din remains stubbornly where he is, determined to not throw the first attack, to not provoke with anything save words.

It takes less than a minute before Elgar’nan lets out a cry and unleashes a barrage of lightning in Falon’Din’s direction. He moves to dodge but doesn’t manage completely, the attack grazing his shoulder as he snarls and pulls his staff apart scythe blade in his right hand, and the staff blade held reverse in his left. With little more than a thought he launches a stream of fire back at the group, causing them to fan out and the battle to begin in earnest.

Falon’Din had always fought on the front lines in his own battles. He thrived on the glory and adrenaline of combat, loved the feeling of his blades sinking into flesh, of reanimating the dead before they even hit the ground. He knew how to fight close quarters with both his blades and his magic, but while he was used to going against high numbers, he was not used to those numbers also being equal power to him. It takes longer for him to go down than he figures they expect, stumbling and being pushed down the steps of his own dais, sending him rolling, but he doesn’t stay down, forcing himself back up, shuttering Dirthamen’s shared pain and concern through their link and ignoring the white hot flash of pain from his ankle as he stands again.

Then there’s an arrow, through his thigh and he stumbles, but remains on his feet, snarling at Andruil. They had been friendly, once. Before she lost her mind to lyrium, before Dirthamen wiped her memories of the titans from her mind. He had lost her before now, but the betrayal still stung. He throws a bolt of lightning her direction, catching her shoulder and making her next arrow fly wide as Sylaise moves in calling the Fade and summoning vines to try to hold him in place, he slashes deftly at them with his scythe, slicing through and dancing away just in time to be narrowly missed by a knife thrown expertly by June, crackling with magic and raw power as it embeds itself into the wall behind. The moment’s hesitation that follows is all Solas needs to freeze the floor beneath Falon’Din’s feet and draw a wind just strong enough to knock him off balance. He tumbles again, managing to botch his fall and jar his shoulder, but he remains hold of the halves of his staff as he comes up on one knee.

The sounds of footsteps approach and everyone in the room pauses to look towards the door where Ghilan’nain walks in smiling. “Sorry I’m late, I was making friends,” she almost sings as three distorted and grotesque beasts enter behind her, moving towards Falon’Din at a decent speed. He dodges the lunges of the first two but the third grabs him around the waist as the other two double back to grab at him again. The angles are odd and he’s weakened from the injuries he’s already sustained and he goes down again, struggling against Ghilan’nain’s creations holding him down. He sees Elgar’nan advance and he starts fighting to break the hold on him before finally taking the risk and lighting all three ablaze. Their hold loosens enough to scramble backwards out of it while they worry about the flames, but it wasn’t fast enough and now Elgar’nan’s hand is around his throat.

“Haven’t seen you use your hands since I was a child,” Falon’Din taunts, voice slightly hoarse around the pressure on his throat as Elgar’nan squeezes. “Underestimate me?”

Elgar’nan snarls and tightening his grip. Using the distraction he raises a hand to swing a blade into Elgar’nan’s back and then there’s an arrow in his arm and he feels a concussive blast of thunder simultaneously, stunning him, and causing him to drop the blade he was swinging. Suddenly the hand on his throat is white hot and Falon’Din can’t stop the scream trying to tear from his lips as he feels the skin start to melt layer by layer and no sound comes anymore, just voiceless rasping as his vision goes white from the pain.

“Stop,” Mythal commands from the corner she stood in, watching the whole time, but not partaking, not lifting a hand in protection or violence. Falon’Din never hated her more than now. “We’re not here to kill him.”

“Speak for yourself,” Elgar’nan snarls, fingers digging into the remaining flesh.

“We are _not_ ,” she repeats, magically pulling Elgar’nan away; Falon’Din collapsing on the floor. “He has learned his lesson,” she declares, looking coolly at him, marking the arrows still in his thigh and arm and his melted throat. She arches an eyebrow as he tries to stand again, leaning heavily against the wall and glaring daggers around the room. “Or. Perhaps he hasn’t. No murder.” she repeats.

The others advance again, and Falon’Din’s cornered, but still casting the spells he can, catching clothes on fire as they advance. One well placed lightning bolt to his stomach has him falling over again, this time, no breaks come. Spell after spell is thrown at him, feet kicking his sides and shoulders for good measure. He’s lost track of voices, or movements and of the halves of his staff. He can no longer fight back and _now_ the fear settles over him. The certainty death is on it’s way. Every ounce of focus remaining, he pours into keeping the mental link as closed as possible to spare Dirthamen the torment. Things were bad enough without feeling him die, without feeling the soundless and wordless screams he tries to utter and can’t through his mangled and melted throat. He hadn’t realized how much blood he’d lost until is splashes with one of the others’ steps.

He doesn’t know how long it lasts until suddenly it stops again, distantly, he knows it must be Mythal calling it off and he wants to stand again, wants to show them he’s not beaten or broken, despite his fear, despite how weak he feels, but his arms won’t move to lift him as he watches the others walk away. “I hope you learned your lesson in _humility_ ,” Mythal says with a frown before leaving herself, the last to exit through the door, leaving Falon’Din alone, so alone, with his fear and anguish. It’s almost too much to bear.

\---

Falon’Din wakes up with a sudden jolt, sitting straight up, deep gasping breaths almost hurting his throat and chest, as he clutches for his throat again, finding scarring but not exposed muscle or bone. He wasn’t still there. He had slept for months. He had seen his reflection and broke. And then he was carried back to the bedroom and fell asleep again, exhausted. And the Fade saw fit to offer him the memories of his failure and his normal inability to sleep had always made it harder for him to alter the fade when not awake.

Dirthamen has shifted back to his own body, blinking and concerned, hands reaching to gently pull him back into cuddling, wrapping his small frame around Falon’Din’s lanky angles and pouring comfort and apologies into the bond. “I’m sorry,” Falon’Din whispers, the words have been trying to break free since he first awoke. He had _physically_ shoved Dirthamen away, had shut him out, had almost died. And it was still on Dirthamen to nurse him back to health. And still Dirthamen blamed himself, for not knowing earlier, for not healing well enough… Falon’Din didn’t deserve it. “It’s my fault, I’m sorry.”

Through their bond, Dirthamen assures him there’s no need for apology, warmth and comfort and love trying to envelop him like a fire on a cold day. But the pain is too invasive and Dirthamen’s guilt is still tangible despite Falon’Din deeming him innocent. He curls into a tight ball, Dirthamen’s arms around his waist. This wasn’t who Falon’Din was. No being deserving of the name laid in bed and merely wallowed in pain and despair. This wasn’t who he was, this wasn’t who he was meant to be. This wasn’t who Dirthamen had _wanted_ him to be either. He had been shaped by his brother’s hands as they grew up together and this had never been Dirthamen’s end goal. There was no use for a broken toy.

No, he knew who he was now, he knew _what_ he was now. He remembered the name given to him at his birth, intent to keep him quiet, keep him low, keep him subservient and unassuming. Given to him because even in birth he had lost and that was a crime Elgar’nan had felt he should bear the shame of for the rest of his life. It was a name he never liked, one that always made his skin crawl and anger rise. One he cast aside as soon as he was able. One Dirthamen had never used. And a name that was apt now, a name synonymous with the lesson the others tried to teach him. A word that Mythal had been certain to use against him.

Athim. Humility.

A rage inside him tries to build at the thought, tries to deny it. Tries to point out he has come too far to be reduced to such a brand, to be brought so low. He still had a kingdom, he still had followers-

But did he? He had slept for months. A lot could change in months- he had taken whole territories in less time, with proper planning. He had not left their home since waking either. He had not been seen since the slaughter at the temple his kingdom knew he was at. Did his followers think him dead? Did the other Evanuris think him dead? Had any of them sent messages to check? Was Dirthamen running things in his stead? Or had every inch of land he’d claimed been taken by others leaving him and Dirthamen naught but their home and Dirthamen’s hidden temple and enclave? Dirthamen was never much of a fighter; Falon’Din was the war leader. Dirthamen could work the strategies, could see the outcomes, but he had never lead a battle before. Was he defending their land? He finds himself incapable of asking, dreading both the news of lost territory or that Dirthamen lead better than he himself. He doesn’t look for the knowledge in Dirthamen’s mind either, more comfortable in the uncertainty than willing to risk knowing.

The Empire was Falon’Din’s, the kingdom, the right to rule. It belonged to _Falon’Din_ and that wasn’t who he was anymore. He _couldn’t_ be that anymore. Falon’Din couldn’t die, Falon’Din wouldn’t almost bleed out on his own floors. Falon’Din wouldn’t have pushed Dirthamen for any reason, even if it was to get him through an eluvian to save his life. Falon’Din wouldn’t have trapped him on the other side. So clearly, he wasn’t Falon’Din. So he must be Athim, the scared and hurt child who had too much rage to reconcile with his desire for approval or love. The child who spent most of his time away from others or hiding to escape Elgar’nan’s wrath. And he even _looked_ like Elgar’nan too, now. Looked like his father who had spent every spare moment ignoring or abusing him. Even as allies they had barely been able to work together, often at each others’ throats.

He turns in Dirthamen’s arms, pressing his face against the smaller man’s chest. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have stayed, shouldn’t have blocked you out.” His voice is still gruffer and he going to have to adjust to that, and he tries to ignore the quiet sobs in his voice. Crying was weakness and he had already done too much of it.

\---

Dirthamen had left- to take care of business, of course; he would not leave for anything less, but Falon’Din wasn’t around to be able to run and manage his domain thus someone had to lift a hand and do it, to preserve what little might remain. Falon’Din was Gone, but his people couldn’t know that, couldn’t despair. The Evanuris couldn’t know and steal the lands Falon’Din had rightfully conquered. Dirthamen knew the value of maintaining as much as he could, did it without being asked. But his twin….

He wanders their home on the ocean floor, wrapped in a blanket and shivers. His own clothes didn’t feel right- but of course they didn’t- he wasn’t that man anymore, he wasn’t Falon’Din. The name felt wrong even simply in his thoughts, he hadn’t dared to try to speak it- it would be blasphemy on his tongue. He had finally been taught the lesson the name given him at birth was meant to teach him. _Humility_. Athim. That’s who he was- _what_ he was now. A lesson to the others about what happens when you get too unruly, the price of Mythal’s rage. He was once again a child suffering for the arrogance of Mythal and Elgar’nan, suffering after the latter vented his rage upon him, a broken child who had simply asked the wrong man to love him. Athim had always been defined by his failures and pain, by the scars Elgar’nan could leave.

He shivers again, cold. That was new- he was normally a furnace. Walking warmth to balance Dirthamen’s icy coldness. Was this a sign? Was this his fall from grace? A lingering symptom of his failure and disappointment? If it was, he didn’t know what came next, but it did give him an idea- if his own closet suited him so ill, now, there was yet another option.

Pulling the blanket tighter about his shoulders for warmth, he trudges back towards the bedroom both twins shared and walks into Dirthamen’s wardrobe this time. It was dim and lacked the mirrors Falon’Din’s had, but that suited him well. His appearance hardly mattered- he merely needed something more comforting to wear. He reaches up and pulls down a familiar cloak. They’re all familiar to his eyes, he knew Dirthamen’s wardrobe as well as anything, knew each cloak and robe was made to match one in Falon’Din’s closet, to draw attention back towards the flashier twin, the one who reveled in attention.

This one is a deep blue, black save in specific lights, with gold accents and embroidery. It would serve him well enough, he decides, dropping the blanket from his shoulders and changing into the cloak and it’s matching robe. On Dirthamen’s small frame, any robes would brush the floor, but Falo- _Athim_ was taller, lankier, and they they only brushed his knees, sleeves hanging only three fourths of the way down his arms. But, as he pulled the deep hood up to hide his face, it felt _right_. For the first time he truly understood Dirthamen’s need to hide from the world, to mask his face and form in shadows and mysteries. He had always respected it, but the vanity of Falon’Din could _never_ understand the appeal in hiding yourself away.

He feels a tug at the mental link and for a moment he almost feels guilty, for a moment he worries how Dirthamen will react to finding him in clothes that don’t belong to him, but Dirthamen had never raised a hand against him, had never begrudged him anything. So after the moment’s hesitation, he shuffles to the main room to greet his twin at the eluvian to welcome him back.


End file.
